Five Second Decision
by theimpalaismybaby
Summary: Five seconds to decide Dean. Bullet in the head or turning into the living dead?


_Author's comment: I hope you like this. I wrote it for a contest on DA, but didn't win, so I wanted to share it here. Warning! Character death! Major Dean angst! I do not own Supernatural, Dean, Bobby, Sam or anything related to Supernatural. Nor do I own the lyrics to "Is This Love" by Whitesnake.  
_

_I should have known better_

It couldn't be true. This just wasn't him. It could never be. The long face loomed over him, briefly, and the recognition in the eyes were gone, just white caps remained.

The gun was gripped tight in his hand as his amber pools glanced behind him, backed by other hunters. They too, were faced with other lumbering creatures, but they wasted no time mourning a loss of something close to them.

The small hunter kicked up dust and swung his foot low as a distraction. Taking the bait Sam- not Sam anymore, it wasn't him any longer. The thing fell with gusto, long limbs snapping under the weight pressing down on them at awkward angles.

"Five seconds, Dean."

Dean's eyes didn't flicker away from his target as he was assaulted with liquid memories dripping through his brain, stopping the gun from raining and doing what it should do.

A bullet hole.

_"Dean…" A whisper across sheets, a small child clutching to him in the night, afraid._

_"Dean!" Caustic. An irritated pout on a long face._

_"Dean." A salute, a good morning smile. Sam._

"Dean! Four seconds!"

Snapping out of his stupor, he flicked his gun up and pulled the trigger, watching the bullet pierce through one of them. He'd gotten used to the backlash in his many years of gun-handling. He heard the deafening crack as the jaw snapped off, darkened blood crusted over. The impact of the shotgun sent the thing sprawling to the ground.

Turning back to the gangly Sam- No. Not Sam. The THING grasped at his boot, moaning loudly. _They didn't feel pain_, Dean thought to himself, over and over again as their life flashed before his eyes. He raised the gun.

Three seconds.

To push back the feelings that floated to the surface.

Two seconds.

Left to breathe. To stop himself… Somehow.

One second.

To pull the trigger and obliterate any hope that was left standing inside of him.

Swearing under his breath, Dean looked down at his brother seeing nothing of what he used to be, left. But as he looked a picture formed in his mind, of his brother laughing, playing pranks.

"Dean! Pull the fucking trigger!"

Now.

With an unequaled force, Dean blew a large gaping hole into the brain of the former Sam. The shot sounded in his ears, as he watched the wriggling carcass finally stop moving. Seconds passed. Ticked in a daze.

Nothing left to mourn about.

Turn around.

Walk back to the hunters.

Grab the food and the water they'd retrieved in their mission to the surface.

Never look back.

XX

He wasn't one od those blonde bimbo's who was never able to pop a cap into a sister or a brother, no. He was a hunter. When family got turned, you took care of them, not letting them live through the pain. Dean had. Somehow he couldn't do it. What every hunter should do. Just bite their lip and put a bullet clear through the brain. He hadn't been able to save Sam. He hadn't been able to shove the demon off of him and save his brother from getting infected.

John would spit in his grave.

The last second has passed, leaving nothing left of Sam. Dean had been strong up until that point, grasping hold of his brother, chanting in his ear that they would find a cure, save him. The foam dripping from his mouth, the beautiful eyes snapping back. Nothing left. Grunts and groans as Sam grasped Dean, closing in. Bobby had saved him, knowing Dean would want to be the one to kill him. He'd gotten the zombfied Sam out of their underground base.

Whatever happened after that Dean didn't know. Nor did he care to.

_Than to let you go alone._

XX

"It's not your fault, Dean." A rough voice said, close to him until old, brittle bones came to rest beside the torn brother. He didn't need to look over to see graying beard, a small nose, distant eyes and a fatherly expression on his face. Bobby.

A moment passed and Dean didn't offer any insight, just sat still, cleaning his gun.

"Dean-"

"Tell that to the hole in Sammy's brain and the bite on his shoulder."

Silence. Bobby knew not to argue with Dean's logic now. And neither of them were the sharing-feeling type that Sam had been. Had.

As if to help Dean through what he was going through, pressed into Dean's hand was a bottle of scotch.

"Work through this, Dean. We need you."

No apologies. No tears. No helpful words. Just, "work through this." They NEED him. As if they didn't care that he just murdered his own brother.

When silence greeted Bobby, he knew it was his cue to leave Dean to is empty mind, to push back the fragments tormenting him and take residence in his body.

Nursing the bottle close to his chest, he bitterly tore open the top and brought it to his lips, hearing Dam's voice in his head.

_"Dean, I need you!"_

_"Dean!"_

_"And what makes you think that putting itching powder into my boxers is a good idea? It's on!"_

He pushed back the sound of Sam's voice in his head and took a hearty swing. The scotch burned in his throat and down, deep, reaching a place that not even his tattered feelings could reach now. It was a fiery feeling that consumed him, smothered him. And somehow he was able to drift off letting the memories chew at his heart.

_It's times like these,_

_I can't make it on my own_

XX

Minutes, hours, days.

They all passed in a shade of scotch, sour breath and painful reminiscing.

"Dean. Get your ass up."

A soft groan, thumping headache.

"I'm tired of this pissing and moaning crap. I've moved on, it's time for you too."

Anger, bubbling down from inside him. He didn't understand.

"I killed my brother, Bobby! You don't ever recover from that."

Bobby's face softened slightly, "Dean, ya jackass. I've lost someone dear to me too, remember? Now get your ass up and go kill something, go jack off, get some ass, or at least go take a walk. You look like the walking dead in here." He sniffed, and then cringed. Shaking his head, he looked about the simple room, the walls crumbling.

"Fuck you, Bobby."

"Happy Halloween, Dean. Now get your ass up."

_Wasted days, and sleepless nights_

_An' I can't wait to see you again_


End file.
